Intervention
by ScarletDeva
Summary: Because Rogue and Gambit are Rogue and Gambit but not RogueandGambit and dammit the X-Men need sleep. Cameos by silence and awkwardness. But all's well that ends well? At least sleep comes back to the mansion, anyway. Sort of sequel to The Psychology of Poison.


**Intervention**

Author's Note: This is a sort of sequel to the Psychology of Poison. Cause I love writing angst but I hate leaving them so unhappy. So yeah. Emma and Logan helped.

Summary: Because Rogue and Gambit are Rogue and Gambit but not RogueandGambit and dammit the X-Men need sleep. Cameos by silence and awkwardness. But all's well that ends well? At least sleep comes back to the mansion, anyway.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Or the manual would have happened.

Spoilers: Nothing in particular really.

* * *

They woke up tied to chairs.

With adamentium chains.

"No, don't get up, really," a cool voice said and then the owner of the voice stepped into the light. "This is an intervention. You see, even with my best telepathic shielding, your angst is simply too loud and you two are ruining my sleep. I need my sleep." She flipped back her blonde hair and smiled thinly. "Now I am going to give you a half hour where you," she pointed at the scruffy faced man, "explain how guilty you feel for your bouts of cheating. And you," she gestured to the green-eyed woman, "explain how guilty you feel for having uncontrollable powers. Blah blah, angst yawn." She paused by the door. "Your time starts now."

Awkward silence greeted the click of the lock.

Then…

"I'm so sorry," he burst out.

She shook her head violently. "No, it's my fault, I know it."

"No-…"

"I changed my mind," that cool voice interrupted again. "Frankly, you are projecting so violently, it is giving me a dreadful headache." Her heels tapped along the parquet floor. "We understand, we really do. You are enjoying your endless drama and martyred suffering. But, really, you have taken it quite too far. If nothing else," she said and pulled out a stack of stapled paper, "consider this very, very long list of ways everyone else had thought of for you two to… engage in intercourse. And everyone else is only peripherally interested in your coitus. So just what is your excuse for turning your relationship into a grotesque puddle of misery?"

Silence.

"Very well. I am not a particular fan of drawing things out, so let me explain what is going to happen now." She set the stack down on a small table and the light switched, illuminating a large bed and the big suitcase resting on top of the comforter. "I will be departing. Once the door closes and locks, your chains will release. Do not look for an exit as you will not find one and this room is built to withstand your powers." She paused and smirked. "Yes, we have indeed been planning this for a long time." Then she patted the suitcase. "You may peruse the list or feel free to come up with your own solution. In any case, everything you may possibly need is right here. Once you have selected your method, you may… experiment. The door will unlock once the program detects specific biorhythms and not a moment sooner. I am sure you can imagine what the biorhythms in question are."

She strode to another corner of the room and the light switched on over a full-sized refrigerator. "This contains sufficient sustenance for two weeks."

With that ominous announcement, she departed.

And the chains fell.

Awkwardness reared its ugly head and slithered across the room. Then it settled in for tea and crumpets. Or champagne and caviar. Whatever.

"Have we…" she whispered.

"Do we…" he choked out at the same time.

Yep. Awkwardness. Here to stay. Comfy in the blankets.

Meanwhile, out in the free world, the blonde offered her hand to a short, funny haired man. "It was good doing business with you," she said, laughter creasing her eyes though her mouth remained prim.

He took it and held on longer than propriety dictated. "Any time, darlin'."

Three hours and a chastised Bobby Drake later - streaming a live feed of the room on the internet was really just in poor taste, not to mention mostly useless since the contents consisted of two people sitting on chairs as far away from each other as possible – Emma and Logan were in the kitchen with two plates neatly appointed with medium rare filet mignon wrapped in thick cut bacon, potatoes dauphinoise, and haricot verts Lyonnaise. Between bites of food, they were crossing names off a long, printed list. Her pen strokes were neat and parallel and, as she made them, she let the faintest of smirks crease her lips. He pulled the paper away, gently maneuvering the pen out of her fingers, and slashed it across another name.

Everyone who had bet on any time within the first couple of hours clearly hadn't been paying attention.

Silence, however, was paying attention while it was cozying up with awkwardness, snuggling against its side for all it was worth.

The air was really a bit gelatinous.

"Merde," he said and put some fire into it. Then he rose off the chair and stalked over to the table.

"No," she cried out. "It's just… an illusion. At the end of the day, Ah'm still death by a kiss."

He executed a perfect Gallic shrug. "You're worth it, cher." And then picked up the stack of papers and turned to the first suggestion. His head tilted, his eyes narrowing into a squint and… he grinned.

She covered her face with her hands and drew a shuddering breath but she could still hear the rustling of the pages and she didn't need to see him to imagine his expression.

It wasn't too long before she felt his gloved hand carefully peel her fingers away from her eyes and then take a gentle hold of her chin.

"Personally," he said, "I'm partial to two, thirteen and anything from twenty-three to fifty-one. But lady's choice." He maneuvered the stack into her lap and favored her with a challenging look.

"Ah… Ah want to, Ah really do! But…" and she sort of gaped helplessly, like a fish making faces through the aquarium glass.

"We've done all the buts, cher," he said seriously, "and where has it gotten us?" Then he nudged the stack and trailed his fingertips down her cheek, leather against skin, soft against softer, and he smiled. "Let's do something new."

And almost against her will, her hand reached for the pages.

It only took another ten hours before Cerebro detected the appropriate biorhythms and unlocked the door.

But the door itself?

Didn't open for another three days.

Emma paid the pot out to Logan in crisp hundred dollar bills.

It was worth every penny to finally get some sleep that night.


End file.
